The Dollmaker
“Why did you have to die?” he whispered.
Because you let me.
His voice became petulant. “But I was just a child.”
You should have found a way to stop him.
“I’ve stopped him now.”
Too late.
“It’s not too late. You’re not dead. You’re just…hiding.”
Then come and find me.
He leaned closer, searching and searching his reflection until the ringing of his cell phone jarred him. He didn’t want to answer it. He hated disturbances while he worked, but his concentration was already broken. Fetching the phone from his jacket pocket, he checked the caller ID and, recognizing the number of the nursing home, didn’t bother to answer.
Tossing the phone aside, he returned to the unfinished doll and placed a gentle hand on her sculpted head. “I have to go out for a while, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Leaving the door to the studio open, he hurried up the steps to the kitchen to fix a tray. He toasted bread and poured a bowl of cereal, then, once he had the dishes and silverware arranged just so, carried everything back down the steps and placed the tray on his worktable while he unlocked and slid open a hidden compartment in one wall. He bent down to peer inside.
The lights were out. He couldn’t see anything in the shadowy room, but he knew she was already awake because he could hear her whimpers. The sound irritated him. So did her persistence.
I want to go home.
She must have said it a hundred times already. They all did. And his answer was always the same.
You can’t go home. Not until after the party.
Slipping the tray through the opening, he waited a moment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but when she didn’t appear, he shut the compartment and locked it without a word, then hung the key on a peg near the door.
If he’d learned anything in the past seven years it was that even the most stubborn girl would eventually eat when she got hungry.
Three
The dark clouds piling up over the Gulf of Mexico brought an early twilight to the city, but Claire Doucett barely noticed the sporadic raindrops that splashed against her cotton blouse as she hurried along the sidewalk. Her gaze was fastened on a group of teenage girls in front of her, and as they stopped to admire something in a shop window, she paused, too, her heart beating a painful staccato inside her chest. Their backs were to her, but when the one in the middle turned just so…dear God, she looked like Ruby.
At least the way Claire imagined her daughter would look at fourteen. The way she appeared in the age-progressed photo created by a forensic artist at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
She would be tall like her dad, but with Claire’s thin stature and her grandmother Lucille’s golden ringlets.
The girl in front of her shook her head and her blond curls shifted against her narrow back. She wore shorts and flip-flops, and her legs were long and tanned and gorgeous. Her laughter drifted back to Claire, sending a fine chill along her spine, and her heart started to beat even harder. There was something so sweet and innocent and familiar about that sound.
Claire closed her eyes and tried to conjure Ruby’s laugh. It was getting harder and harder to do. After seven years, the memories were sometimes elusive.
But, no, there it was…the image of a two-year-old Ruby at the zoo, tugging on Claire’s hand as she laughed up at her. “Bears, Mama!”
Even as a toddler, Ruby had been such a happy child. Sweet and tenderhearted, and yet so willful and stubborn at times that Claire’s patience had been sorely tested.
“That child would argue with a fence post,” Claire’s mother used to say with an exaggerated sigh.
“Yes, and I wonder who she gets that from,” Claire would counter.
Secretly, Claire had been grateful that her daughter inherited more of Lucille’s disposition than hers. Claire was too much like her moody father, although she hoped to God she never succumbed to the same demons that had driven him to suicide when she was just a baby.
Even in her deepest despair after Ruby’s kidnapping, Claire had never contemplated taking her own life, and for one good reason—she’d never given up hope that her daughter would someday come home to her. The flame had grown dimmer with each passing year, but on days like today, the glimpse of a familiar face on a crowded street could rekindle her faith, and she’d find herself indulging in the same old fantasy.
Ruby was still alive and she’d been happy and healthy all these years. A childless couple had seen her riding her bike on the sidewalk that day and had been enchanted by her blond curls and sunny smile.
They’d taken her home with them, loved her as if she was their very own, and in time, Ruby had responded to their kindness and affection. In time, she’d adjusted to her new home, and for the past seven years, she’d led a perfectly normal life. Maybe she no longer even remembered her real family. Her real mother.
Claire blinked back unexpected tears.
The fantasy was just that. Nothing more than a wishful daydream that had helped sustain her through some of her darkest days. And the girl on the street in front of her wasn’t Ruby. The likelihood of her daughter still being alive was miniscule. To even consider for a moment that Ruby might have been in New Orleans all this time, that fate would have miraculously brought them together on this very street, was ludicrous.
And yet…
Claire whispered her daughter’s name. The sound slipped through her lips as a plea.
The girl turned, as if responding to the soft entreaty, and Claire saw her clearly for the first time. The girl’s face split into a broad smile, and Claire’s breath caught. Everything around her seemed to still. The noise from the street faded, and the palm fronds and banana trees in a nearby courtyard stood motionless in the heat, as if nature itself was holding a breath.
And then Claire exhaled in a painful rush. It wasn’t Ruby. Of course it wasn’t Ruby. But for that one fleeting moment when their gazes touched, Claire had a glimpse of what it might be like to see her daughter’s face again after all these years.
The girl’s attention moved past her and she waved at someone behind Claire. Someone who had called out her name.
Megan. The girl’s name was Megan. Not Ruby.
Claire glanced at her reflection in a store window, saw the pinched look on her face, the whitened knuckles where her hand gripped her purse strap, and slowly she let out another breath.
Ruby was dead and she wasn’t coming back. She’d been taken from the sidewalk in front of their home while riding her bike, the victim of an abduction that had never been solved. Claire knew the statistics. Her daughter had probably been dead within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after she’d been grabbed, her body discarded in some remote field or shallow grave, where she had been lying all these years. Alone.
Claire put a hand to her mouth. Tears scalded her eyes, but she held them back as she scoured the street in front of her. The girl and her friends had scurried beneath an awning to get out of the drizzle. Claire deliberately turned and started walking in the opposite direction.
“Did you hear about the body they found in the Quarter?” Charlotte LeBlanc asked casually when she and Claire met a few minutes later at their designated rendezvous.
“I saw it on the local news before I left the house this morning. Do the police know who did it?”
Claire’s sister was an assistant D.A. for Orleans Parish and usually had an open pipeline to the police department, but she shook her head. “They think it was probably drug-related. So far they haven’t even been able to identify the body. Poor bastard was sliced up pretty bad. All his fingers were missing.”
Claire shuddered. “I don’t know how you do it, dealing with that kind of violence on a daily basis. I think it would start to get to me after a while.”
“I think it would, too, but I’m not you. And someone has to keep the baddies off the street.” Charlotte snapped open her umbrella as the drizzle turned into a full-fledged shower and the gray clouds over the Gulf vibrated with lightning. Within a matter of moments the city was soaked and dripping, and as they walked along Decatur, Charlotte tried to hold the umbrella over both of them.
“Here, let me,” Claire said as she took the handle. “I’m taller.”
“Okay, but just make sure I’m covered. I’m wearing silk. Damn.” Charlotte swore as she stepped in a puddle. “And these shoes are brand-new.”
Claire glanced down at her sister’s high heels. The delicate footwear had obviously not been designed for wet weather, but certainly looked elegant and sophisticated on Charlotte’s dainty feet.
Claire felt a stab of envy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d splurged on a pair of expensive shoes. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed any indulgence whatsoever, but with her divorce nearly final, she had to keep her belt tightened. Now was not the time for extravagant purchases.
Although Charlotte would argue that designer shoes were not an extravagance, but a necessity. Image was everything and nothing screamed success like a good pair of shoes. Unless, of course, it was her gorgeous leather handbag, the one that had come with a four-figure price tag in roughly the same amount as Claire’s new central air-conditioning unit.
Her grandmother’s old house was going to be the death of her yet, Claire thought as she and Charlotte sidestepped crates of watermelons and cantaloupes stacked in front of a small grocery store. The old Uptown house was a classic money pit with the never-ending repairs and the exorbitant utility bills. Little wonder that she’d worn the same sandals and carried the same battered tote for two summers in a row. But then, an artist, as Charlotte teasingly called her, didn’t need to worry about her image the way an up-and-coming assistant D.A. did.
Claire wondered if any of the people they passed on the street would ever guess that she and Charlotte were sisters. They were so different in so many ways. They shared the same mother, but their looks and temperament had come from their respective fathers.
Charlotte was a petite brunette and as charming and vivacious as her handsome father, A. J. LeBlanc, who had sweet-talked his way into their mother’s heart and bed and then absconded with her life savings two days after she’d told him she was pregnant.
Charlotte’s abandonment issues aside, her father’s Creole heritage had blessed her with a honey-colored complexion and beautiful almond-shaped eyes the color of fine Burmese jade. Claire had always thought her sister resembled a porcelain figurine, but when she got angry, those green eyes would glitter like a knife blade.
In contrast, Claire was tall, thin and fair, an introvert whose propensity for brooding had come from her bookish father. William’s suicide, followed by A.J.’s betrayal, might have made some women a little gun-shy in the romance department, but not their mother, Lucille. A string of live-in lovers had followed, until her latest paramour, Hugh Voorhies, had swept her off her feet eight years ago. That was an endurance record for Lucille.
“Damn, Claire, pay attention, will you? I’m getting soaked.”
“Sorry.” Claire repositioned the umbrella to make sure that her sister was protected. The rain stirred a myriad of scents along the street—stale wine, flowers and damp brick. And from a restaurant doorway, spicy sausages and fresh-baked bread.
“I’m starving,” Charlotte grumbled. “Tell me again why we’re out walking in the rain instead of having an early dinner somewhere.”
“Because now that I’ve increased my hours at the gallery, I don’t have much time for shopping. Mama’s birthday is next week and I want us to get her something special.” Claire was a glassblower and shared a space in the Warehouse District with several other artisans. They took turns manning the gallery and using the studio and furnaces in the back, but because Claire needed the money, she’d started working additional shifts in the showroom.
“If time’s that tight, maybe we should just run into Canal Place and pick out a nice scarf or a bottle of perfume,” Charlotte said. “Or some gold earrings. Lucille loves jewelry.”
“Let me remind you that your idea of accessories is quite different from our mother’s.”
“You’re right. Better forget the gold earrings. Subtlety has never been Lucille’s strong suit.” Charlotte smiled and her eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners. Even with her hair all windblown and damp, she was still the most beautiful woman Claire had ever seen. “So what do you have in mind?”
“There’s a place on Chartres that has one of a kind dolls. I saw an ad for it in the paper recently.”
Charlotte made a face. “Please, not another doll! She already has forty gazillion lying around the house. She doesn’t need another one.”
“It isn’t a matter of need,” Claire gently chided. “It’s what she wants, and I think a fiftieth birthday warrants something special, don’t you?”
“Well, when you put it that way. I’ve got a little cash stashed away, but what about you? Now that you’re single again, money must be tight.”
“I’ll manage. My pieces are selling pretty well these days. Besides, if we find something special, Hugh’s agreed to chip in half. All you and I have to do is split the difference.”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “How on earth did you talk Hugh Voorhies into coughing up that kind of cash? The man’s so tight he squeaks when he walks.”
“I know, but he’s crazy about Mama. He likes to complain about her dolls, but he’d do anything to keep her happy.”
“Ain’t that the damn truth? I’d really love to know that woman’s secret. I’m serious,” Charlotte said when Claire chuckled. “Think about it, Claire. She smokes like a furnace, cusses like a sailor, dresses like a cheap whore and yet she always has some man crazy over her. I can’t even get a date for my boss’s fund-raiser on Saturday night. How does she do it?”
“She’s Lucille.”
They waited for traffic to clear, then crossed the street and turned up Conti. Claire could smell the river behind them. The rain had cooled the air, and the lights coming on in the early twilight looked like a turn of the century French painting. It was the kind of soft, dreamy afternoon that made her glad she’d come back to New Orleans after the flood. Not that she would ever seriously consider living anywhere else. She was third generation. Her grandmother had been born and raised in the same house that Claire now owned.
“I’ve been giving the matter a lot of thought,” Charlotte said as she looped her arm through Claire’s. Her silk blouse clung damply to her small breasts, but she didn’t seem to care anymore. “I’m Lucille’s daughter. I must have inherited a little of…whatever it is that she’s got, so why am I still alone?”
“You’re asking me? The sister with two failed marriages?”
“Don’t say that. Your second divorce isn’t final yet.”
“Yes, but the waiting period is merely a formality.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Just say the word and Alex would move back home in a flash.”
Claire looked away, shook her head. “It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late. And a man like Alex Girard doesn’t come along every day. Take it from me, the world is full of losers, but then…I guess you already know that, don’t you? Having been married to the biggest asshole of all time.”
“Charlotte.”
Claire’s rebuke brought her sister’s chin up in defiance. “Well, I’m sorry. I know we’re not supposed to talk about Dave Creasy, but I can’t help it. I’m never going to forgive him for what he did to you. Never.”
“It’s ancient history. Let it go.”
Charlotte’s mouth thinned. “If only that were true. But he’s the reason you could never fully commit to Alex. Don’t even bother to deny it, because I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Then you must also know that I don’t want to talk about either of my ex-husbands,” Claire replied in exasperation. “I just want to spend the rest of the day shopping with my sister.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal then. I won’t mention he-who-shall-remain-nameless for at least, oh, another twenty-four hours if you’ll agree to come with me to the fund-raiser on Saturday night.”
“Why in the world would you even want me there? I’m terrible at parties.”
“I know you are, but that’s kind of the point. Now that you’re single, you need to get out more. You spend way too much time puttering around alone in that old house. It’s just not healthy. But…” Charlotte’s expression turned contrite. “I do have an ulterior motive. If I show up at the fund-raiser by myself, people will know I couldn’t get a date. If I bring you, they’ll think I’m a good sister trying to help you through a rough patch.”
“You’re shameless.”
“And desperate,” Charlotte freely admitted. “So what do you say? Will you go? Claire?”
But Claire barely heard her. Mignon’s Collectibles was just across the street, and her gaze was fixed on the doll in the front window. Attired in a pink ruffled dress and black patent leather Mary Janes, she was seated at a tiny table decorated with a miniature tea set.
The doll’s face was so cleverly sculpted and painted that Claire had to stare for several moments before convincing herself that she wasn’t seeing a beautiful child seated at the table.
A child who looked exactly like Ruby.
Claire’s heart started to race as she stared at the doll. She tried to tell herself that the sighting of the teenager earlier had triggered her imagination. Ruby was already on her mind.
But the golden hair. That sweet smile. The little ruffled dress…
She put a trembling hand to her mouth.
“Claire, are you all right? You’re as pale as a ghost. What happened? Are you sick? I knew we should have stopped for something to eat—”
“That doll,” Claire said hoarsely. She couldn’t look away from it.
Charlotte turned toward the store. “The one at the little table?”
“Charlotte, it’s her.”
“You mean the one you want to get Lucille?”
Claire grabbed her sister’s arm. “Don’t you see it?”
Charlotte frowned at Claire’s harsh tone. “For God’s sake, see what?”
“That doll looks just like Ruby.”
“Ruby? Oh, honey, no. It’s just the hair. All those blond curls—”
“It’s not the hair,” Claire whispered. “Look at her face. Her smile. Even the dress. It looks like the one Mama made Ruby for her birthday. She had it on the day she disappeared.”
Fear flickered in Charlotte’s eyes as she glanced back at the shop window. “It’s just a pink ruffled dress. They all look the same—”
“No, they don’t!” Claire said desperately. “Mama had that fabric special ordered. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Charlotte turned slowly toward her sister. “Claire, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that doll is the spitting image of my missing daughter. That dress is identical to the one she had on when she disappeared.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “We both know that’s not possible. It’s just a doll. It’s not Ruby. Claire, wait!”
But Claire had already dashed into the street. Oblivious to the traffic, she kept her gaze fixed on the shop window. The closer she got, the harder her heart pounded. The doll did look like Ruby. It wasn’t her imagination.
“Claire!”
Behind her, she heard Charlotte scream her name at the exact moment she spotted the oncoming car out of the corner of her eye.
It happened so quickly, Claire didn’t have time to panic. The squeal of brakes barely registered a split second before the impact knocked her off her feet. She landed with a metallic thud on the hood and rolled off, hitting the pavement with such force the breath was knocked from her lungs.
She lay on her back, so stunned she couldn’t move, as a crowd began to gather around her. Charlotte reached her first and dropped to her knees beside her.
“Someone call 911!” She grabbed Claire’s hand. “Oh, God, Claire, are you all right?”
Claire tried to answer, but she couldn’t speak. She could do nothing but stare up at the sky as raindrops splashed against her face.
Four
Mignon Bujold had planned to close the shop early so that she could drive out to Jefferson Parish and surprise her little granddaughter with an early birthday present. The big day wasn’t until Sunday, but Mignon would be attending a huge doll show in Baton Rouge all weekend long, and if she didn’t see Piper today, the child would have to wait until Tuesday for her gift. And if past experience was any indication, the exhibition would be so hectic, Mignon might not even get the chance to call. She’d hate for Piper to worry that her grandmaman had forgotten her birthday entirely.
Thinking about the goodies she’d bought for her youngest granddaughter, Mignon smiled in anticipation. She loved both of Lily’s children dearly, but the oldest, MacKenzie, was such a tomboy that Mignon couldn’t spoil her with all the girlie things she so adored. But four-year-old Piper was a real little princess. She lived for her grandmother’s lavish gifts.
Mignon fingered the silver ribbon on the package. The Mori Lee dress and the Queen Tatiana doll were both extravagances, but at least she hadn’t succumbed to her initial temptation and given the child the Savannah Sweete doll. She might be a doting grandmother, but she was also a savvy businesswoman, and she’d recognized what a gold mine that doll would be the moment she first set eyes on her.
And Mignon’s instincts were dead-on, as usual. Not only had a bidding war erupted between two private collectors, but the electronic newsletter she’d hastily sent out to her mailing list had generated a steady stream of customers all afternoon. Business had been so brisk that she might not be able to close early, after all. But it couldn’t be helped. She was not one to turn away customers, especially with the shop just now starting to show a profit since the devastation of the flood.
When the store finally emptied just after five, Mignon headed for the door to lock up. But a commotion on the street drew her to the window, and she stood staring out at the revolving red and blue lights that reflected off the wet pavement. The area was suddenly crowded with policemen, paramedics and rubberneckers gawking at a woman who lay motionless on the street in front of a light blue sedan.
Good heavens, Mignon thought, and hastily crossed herself. First that ghastly murder only a few blocks away last night, and now this.
The woman had obviously been struck while crossing the intersection. Mignon could see one of the patrolmen taking a statement from the distraught driver of the vehicle, while another officer stood nearby, talking into a radio.
At least the poor woman hadn’t been the victim of a hit-and-run like the one that had put Savannah Sweete in a wheelchair all those years ago.
Ever since Mignon acquired the doll in the window, Savannah Sweete had been on her mind. She’d met the artist once, but it had been so long ago, she doubted that Savannah would even remember. However, for Mignon, the encounter had been the highlight of her career. She’d been a devoted fan for years and, along with the rest of the doll-collecting community, had been shocked and distressed to hear of Savannah’s accident.
Mignon remembered the doll maker as beautiful and gregarious, but from everything she’d heard, the accident had turned her into a recluse. And even though her dolls were still exquisitely sculpted and painted and remained highly coveted, the artistry in her creations had never been quite the same. Mignon would bet her teacher’s retirement fund that the doll in the window had been sculpted before the accident. She was that perfect.
Turning away from the sirens and flashing lights, Mignon sent up a prayer for the victim as she reached for the sign in the window. Before she could flip it to Closed, however, the bells over the door tinkled, and she chided herself for not being quicker. She could always turn the customer away, of course, but that wouldn’t be good business. So instead, she shrugged off her impatience and plastered a welcoming smile on her face.